Life is full of disappointments. Just ask Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchey, whose team has consistently lost more games than it has won for more than a decade.

A huge disappointment hit me last week. In fact, probably one of the biggest disappointments any man can know occurred — my grill was out of propane gas.

Over the last 10 days, my entire family has had the stomach flu, my son broke a toe and it actually snowed a week ago. With the recent warm weather lifting everyone’s spirits, though, it was decided that the Ola family was going to have a cookout Tuesday. Nothing welcomes your digestive system back like some juicy burgers cooked over an open flame.

After marinating some chicken breasts (girl food) and selecting some ground beef (man food) to smash into burgers, I headed to the “grill king’s mecca,” which is also known as my back porch, armed with spatula, prongs, brushes, seasoning and plates.

Caressing the top of my grill that was purchased at the end of last summer, I inspected the greatest invention mankind ever created like I was Leonardo DaVinci eyeing up a blank canvas. What wonders would emerge from my flame-infested pit, and could I replicate the grilling season I had last year, which included a new grill, service for 30 (twice) and the recent introduction of seafood to my ever-growing list of specialties?

Lifting the lid, my eyes were greeted by the shiny racks I took special care of over the winter, cleaning and scraping them so they glistened under the afternoon sunlight. The aroma of last year’s last grilling events wafted through the air, taking my senses to a new height only matched by the aroma of fresh cut grass.

With a passion and energy not seen since I made meatballs during the Steelers’ playoff drive, I deliberately turned the dial to “heat” and pushed my starter switch.

The loneliest sound ever seemed to echo off of the steel encasing. “Click.” I tried again, certain there had to be some mistake. “Click.”

This was no mistake. My ears were deafened by the silence that was supposed to be a roaring inferno.

Again, surveying the machine that held my dreams in its dual-racks, variable temperature settings and carefully placed lava rocks, I did what any man would do. I kicked the machine.

Naturally, this did not work.

Exasperated, I reached “under the hood,” and lifted the propane gas tank. The fact that I could lift the tank was my first indication that there was a problem, since heavy lifting has never been one of my specialties.

I shook the can furiously, hoping that I could squeak out a burger for myself from any remaining morsels of gas.

Slamming the lid shut like any man does (it’s our job to take our frustrations out on inanimate objects) I gathered up my utensils and headed back up the stairs to the “regular people” kitchen. By the sad look on my family’s faces, I could tell they empathized with my plight.

After all, I am supposed to be the hunter and the gatherer of the tribe, right? It’s my job to make sure the village gets to eat, which means I need to think of things like the empty gas tank before they occur.

Knowing this, and not one to shirk my responsibilities, I didn’t say a word, but instead, moved quickly to the telephone and did the only natural thing I could do — I called the local pizza parlor. I ordered the usual, but this time for pick up instead of delivery, explaining that I needed time to sulk. What the tribe doesn’t know is that I purchased a burger on my way home!